


Our Fighting Chance

by startwithsparks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Last of Us
Genre: Age Difference, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Explicit Language, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the settings of <i>The Last of Us</i>: When Arya is captured and nearly killed by a group of cannibalistic survivors, it's up to the mysterious stranger, Jaqen H'ghar, to get her safely out of danger. Though he soon finds that she's more than capable of fending for herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Fighting Chance

The fact that a little girl had killed three of their men with a shovel hadn't gone overlooked by the inhabitants of the resort. That the dead men were all little-consequence scouts was insignificant to the people gossiping about it, the only thing that seemed important or worth talking about was that the girl had nearly taken one man's head off and it took two fully grown men to stop her from killing the rest. Some claimed they could hear her yelling and kicking the walls of the holding cell, half of them were afraid she was infected, or at the very least rabid, and those who'd seen her claimed she had a hungry, feral look about her. 

Needless to say, it piqued Jaqen's interest tremendously. 

Regardless of what they told outsiders, there weren't many women around. They were the first to go, whether because they refused to do what was necessary to survive or because they simply hadn't chosen to come here in the first place. Wives and daughters alike all had families, people they thought could protect them better in these dire times. Most of them hadn't lived to see the cusp of winter, many of those hadn't been given a choice. There was an unspoken understanding that no one mentioned what happened to their families or even where they'd come from. Some didn't even use their real names. They all held out hope that one day this would be over and, when it was, they could go back into the world pretending that they hadn't done what circumstance asked of them. 

For his part, Jaqen had very few regrets about what he'd done to survive. In these lean times it was hard to spare a moment's thought for regret when you wondered if you'd even have the chance to suck in your next breath. That desperation and depravation made the allure of an unexpected distraction all the more enticing. 

It wasn't hard to get to her, the building was left scarcely guarded in the first place and those who did have the unfortunate lot of catching patrol were all too willing to let someone else take over. He nodded briefly at one of them on the way in, winding through the ruins of the old butcher's shop towards the back. There was no heat in any of the buildings, save for the burn barrels scattered throughout the resort, but because of the insulation, it felt that much colder here. 

His breath puffed out in front of him with each exhale, nudging scattered debris with his foot as he made his way towards the back room. He could hear her cursing and kicking at the bars, chains rattling and hinges squeaking. Given much more time, she may actually be able to break the door down. These cages weren't made for people hell-bent on getting out of them. It was strange how quickly most people gave up when faced with a perceived inevitable; but not this one, and it made the smirk peel that much further across his face.

When he finally saw her, it was almost shocking. She was such a little thing - ragged and underfed, her skin dirty and her hair in tangles - that it was hard to imagine she had so much fight in her. There were scratches and scars on her hands, disappearing under the sleeves of her torn jacket, and it was easy to see how someone might mistake her for infected. But her skin was flushed and her eyes were bright, and when she stopped thrashing long enough to look at Jaqen, her chest heaved with healthy, labored breathing. She narrowed her eyes at him and took a few deliberately slow steps towards the bars, making a chill shudder up his spine. The smirk was gone then. There was suddenly little doubt how this girl managed to kill three of their men, because she looked like she wanted to send him right to Hell with them. 

"If you unlock this," she offered, her voice sticky-sweet, "I'll consider killing you last when I get out of here..." 

Her head canted slowly at him, eyes never leaving his. He'd never seen eyes that black before. "Death comes as a blessing, sweet girl. You would only be giving a man a gift by delivering him from this life." 

She sharpened her gaze and pressed against the bars, her small hands wrapped tight around the metal. "Then you'll be first," she retorted. "Just unlock the door." 

Jaqen shrugged his shoulders defeatedly, "A man has no key," he replied.

She pushed herself off the door and sighed against the wall behind her, shoulders pressed tight to the blocks, hands stretched to her side, fingers splayed. She hauled in a breath and landed the heel of her boot against the bottom hinge of the door. It shook and groaned, but gave her a fight for her efforts. 

"What are you called?"

"What the fuck do you care?" She landed another kick against the hinge. 

"Curiosity," he answered. "If a man was to somehow find a key, he'd like to know the name of the girl he frees." 

She kicked again, then glanced up at him with almost a snarl. "I'll whisper it to you before I slit your throat." 

Jaqen couldn't help himself - he smirked and shook his head. "A girl has more courage than sense," he muttered, turning on his heel. He was almost out the door again before she spoke:

"Arya," she said. "My name is Arya." 

He glanced over his shoulder, "Jaqen." 

*

There was only one key to the holding cells, and that belonged to David. There was, however, more than a fair share of bolt cutters if one knew where to look for them, and fortunately Jaqen did. He wasn't sure when or even how he'd resolved to let the girl go, except for the fact that there wasn't enough meat on her to feed even one man. He knew what David was going to do with her, most everyone did, and she'd get herself killed fighting him either way. It wasn't some noble urge that had him shoving supplies in a pair of backpacks and pinning the bolt cutters under his coat, it was survival.

Truth was, the girl got to him. In the moments he'd been in the room with her, something about her took hold of him. He'd heard about love and even lust at first sight, and maybe he'd even experienced them, but this was bewitchment. Her pure determination to live, to fight, sunk a hook so deep into him that it was hopeless to fight it. There weren't many people with that kind of passion left in a world of bodies stringing themselves from one breath to the next. A rage burned in her, he could feel it even now, and that fire needed kindling. Maybe he wasn't the one to stoke that flame, but she sure as hell wasn't going to find it here. There was so little hope left in the world that it seemed the worst kind of crime to let it go so easily. 

By the time he was ready to go back for her, it was already dark, the air full of snowflakes tossed about by the wind and glowing embers from the burn barrels flitting about, swirling around in between. Jaqen tugged his hood up over his head, slung his bag over his shoulder, and ducked through the narrow alleys on the way to the butcher's shop. He slung the bags through and open window and hopped in after them, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. What little light the moon managed to cast into the old building became obscured by flurries of snow, soot, and dust. He didn't risk clicking on a flashlight, instead he let his eyes lid and felt his way through the darkness by instinct and memory alone. 

The back room was cast in a hollow glow from the one dirty window that stretched across the top of one wall, but it was enough to get him to the other side of the shop and to her. He carefully closed the door behind him and eased his bags onto the table. The click of a strap against the metal was all it took to startle her awake. She was huddled like a wild animal in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, dark eyes peering out from a wild fall of hair. He drew the bolt cutters from inside his coat and strode slowly towards her. 

Her gaze followed him as he moved, tightening her body as if preparing to strike out. He put the edge of the blade to the chain that locked her in, then paused.

"If a man does this thing," he said, "a girl must listen. A girl must _obey_." 

She slowly uncurled herself, dragging her lower lip between her teeth as her back slid up the wall. Gaze piercing, she nodded slowly. 

The sound of metal slicing through metal was loud enough to bounce off the walls around them and cause Jaqen's heart to jump into his throat. The lock and chains clattered loudly to the floor, and he nudged them aside with the toe of his boot, sliding the door open. Metal scraped against cement and he cringed, but all he needed was to open it a few inches and she could slide through. Her hair smelled like sweat and blood, and the faintest hint of snow, as she brushed past him. 

He put the bolt cutters on the table and reached for the smaller of the two bags, handing it off to her.

"I don't suppose you're going to arm me," she asked, head ticked faintly to one side. She was a good foot shorter than he was, but somehow it never felt like she was looking _up_ at him. 

He reached under his coat again and pulled out a small pistol. She reached for it, but he tugged his hand back. "A girl must choose her shots sparingly," he warned. 

She stared back at him, snatching it from his hand. "I'm not stupid," she said. "Now get me the fuck out of here."


End file.
